


The Dragonknight

by EternalFangirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, And He Knows It, Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Masturbation, Snow White AU, Snow White Elements, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 09:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: The day that Sansa got her moonblood, Queen Cersei's magic mirror named her the most beautiful woman in the world. There was only one thing to be done with the imprisoned Queen of the North... the child had to die.Cersei hadn't counted on her twin's soft heart or the wolf in the woods.





	1. Mirror Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAsexualScorpio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualScorpio/gifts).



> This is the first time I am writing for a gift exchange * gulp * Thank you so much for the opportunity, it was nerve-wracking and wonderful. And look! I finished in time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time with this kind of exchange lol. It was challenging and exhilarating, like jumping out of a plane, which I have never done cos I am a wimp. It boggles my mind that people do that on a regular basis.
> 
> A huge shout out to Rocinante, who had most of the cool ideas about this story, mostly because he was bored at work. Their loss, my gain. He helped me connect my story to the original Grimm Brothers tale, and even wrote a whole scene I unabashedly stole elements from.
> 
> In the original story, the queen tries to kill Snow White thrice: Once with laced bodices, once with a comb and lastly with the apple. Disney must have run out of time, like I did, so just keep that in mind. Thanks for reading, you guys!

_ Winterfell, first day of the new year: _

The day was cold, and winter was truly upon them. Once, this would have bothered Queen Catelyn, who was still considered a Southerner even after she had given the realm a prince. Robb was walking now, eager to train with his father in the yard, even though it was a struggle for him to stay upright for long without help. Soon, he would be old enough to scoff at his mother’s kisses and run away from her hugs.

Her distraction earned the queen a prick of the needle she was sewing with, and she winced as she shook away the little droplet of blood welling on her finger. It dropped on the snow outside the open window, glinting brightly.

“Give me a daughter,” she pleaded with the weirwood tree in the distance. Her husband’s gods. “A sweet and gentle daughter, with skin as white as snow, eyes like ice, and hair as red as blood.”

Maybe she  _ had _ been embraced by the North and its Gods, for her wish was answered not ten moons later. Sansa was the beloved princess of the realm, and everyone in the Winter Kingdom agreed she was a perfect little lady at three.  “Her mother’s shadow,” the courtiers would murmur affectionately, and Sansa would beam at them for the compliment. “She will marry a prince someday, be the perfect little wife to some lucky bastard.”

 

But it was not to be. Sansa was betrothed to a prince, but the Northern Kingdom paid heavily for it. King Eddard uncovered a sordid secret, and died when he tried to make it public. His only daughter, the lady Sansa, became a hostage while her brother, the new King of Winter, fought to bring her home.

 

And then there was a wedding that ran red with blood, and King Eddard’s little girl lost all hope of rescue.

* * *

 

 

_ The Red Keep, a few years later: _

The queen’s voice was bored, the voice of a woman who knew the answer to her question already.

 

“Magic mirror in my hand, who’s the fairest in this land?” asked Queen Cersei, like she had a thousand times before.

Once, she had held her breath when she asked this question, night after night, afraid of the younger and more beautiful queen who would usurp her. Maybe it wasn’t wise to live in fear based on the words of a dirty witch in the woods, but Cersei was no fool to ignore such a warning.  _ Queen you shall be, _ the witch had said,  _ until there comes another—younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear. _

She had cackled sharply when she had seen the terror in Cersei’s eyes, and granted her the mirror as payment for the rights to hunt whatever came into her woods. It had seemed like a good bargain to Cersei, for the mirror never lied, but the witch had never mentioned what sort of creature she ate. Cersei fled when her friend became the witch’s lunch.

 

It had been a good bargain though. Her mirror was worth a thousand Melaras.

Since that day a decade ago, she had asked the mirror the same question every day, to receive the same answer. She was the most beautiful woman in the land, and the only queen. The Targaryens were gone now, and the Stark queen had died at the Red Wedding, trying and failing to save her foolish son. None in the land could challenge her.

Until today.

“For years now, you have been the fairest here,” said the mirror, it’s voice soft as a whisper. “But now there comes another most fair.”

Cersei’s grip tightened on the mirror, her rage making her speechless. She stared, breathing hard, as the mirror showed her an image. It was a girl, sobbing prettily on a feather bed. When she saw the flowing red hair and the pale white skin, the scream she had been holding back finally escaped.

“How dare she?” seethed the queen, slamming the ornate golden mirror down on her dressing table. “I spared her life after her father’s treason, I kept her fed and clothed, I allowed her to stay in my castle and _ this  _ is how she repays me?”

“And who has wronged you now, dear sister?” came a voice behind her, and she turned to face her beloved brother. He had slipped into her chambers when she screamed, no doubt. He was always so protective of her.

“Jamie,” she said, her voice still quivering with rage. “Kill her. You have to kill her. That stupid child cannot be better than me, not even in this.”

Jaime’s armor clanked loudly as he walked down the steps to stand next to her. “And which child am I murdering today?” he asked quietly, his eyes sparkling with mirth. He found her ire funny. Cersei wanted to slap him.

“Sansa,” she hissed. “Take that girl to the kingswood and end her life. I will  _ not  _ have that traitorous child be better than me!”

“Not a child any longer,” Jaime said with a laugh. “Didn’t you say she finally bled today? A perfect, meek little broodmare for our little Joffrey.” He shrugged. “Why kill her? I say let her live. The agony of being wife to Joffrey will be more than enough punishment.”

Now Cersei did slap him. The crack was loud in the vaulted rooms, and she instantly regretted it, but then she saw the fire in Jaime’s eyes and refused to feel guilty anymore. Gone was the glint of humor. Here stood a lion, proud and fierce. Their kiss was wild, passionate, and Cersei knew she had won even before Jaime tore her dress off her.

“Kill her,” she whispered in his ear as he thrust into her. “Kill that bitch and bring me her heart, if you love me. Do it for the children I bore you, for the love I show you.” She let her hands roam as he groaned, his rhythm starting to stutter. “For me, Jaime.”

The girl’s naiveté seemed to damn him.

 

She should have known what her father had accused him and Cersei of, should have known about the whispers that still follow the Queen and her brother. Yet she made no judgement, smiling prettily and saying all the right words as he asked her to accompany him to the woods. He had a lie all ready to tell her, but she didn’t think to ask why. She simply followed him in her best riding boots, blushing prettily and saying the curtsies her Septa must have taught her.

 

He was finding it difficult to carry out the task he had been given. He was a good knight, well-respected even with the rumors flying about him and Cersei. What kind of a knight killed a girl who had only just turned four and ten?

 

_ The kind that loves his queen,  _ said Cersei’s voice in his head.  _ Cersei wants this stupid little girl dead. _

 

As they approached the woods, the girl grew quiet. Her horse slowed down to a leisurely walk, perhaps reading her melancholy mood. Jaime tried not to get annoyed. The girl hadn’t ridden in a few years. It was a wonder she was doing as well as she was.

 

“Ser Jaime,” said the girl quietly, all her earlier gaiety lost. “Will you allow me to take off my dress?”

 

He was so shocked he pulled the reins hard, and his horse neighed sharply in response. That seemed to be the only sound in the woods. He soothed the agitated horse with a pat or two, and stared at his charge. “What did you just say?”

 

“When you...” She blushed once again, fiddling with her reins and shifting in her seat. “I know why I am here, Ser Jaime.”

 

Jaime wanted to laugh. “Do you?” he mocked.  _ You know I mean to kill you? _

 

Her eyes didn’t seem so empty and dumb anymore. They were a peculiar shade of blue, like the rich fabric they imported from Lys to clothe the royal family. “I know you… I know you plan to end my life here.”

 

To Jaime was shocked would be an understatement. “Who told you?” he said, dismounting. He had better keep her away from her horse now, it was a good means of escape.

 

She allowed him to pull her off the saddle, refusing to meet his eyes. “No one needed to,” she said primly. “This is a most peculiar ride through the woods, Ser Jaime. There’s no other explanation. The queen has gotten bored of me.” Her voice was quiet, devoid of all emotion. He had severely underestimated this child. “I knew this would happen one day,” she said. “Wish I had known before I spent so long making this dress.” 

 

When she finally looked up into his eyes, her own were dry. Where did she find the strength to stand and talk to her murderer so calmly? He had seen grown men piss themselves in situations half as dire as this.

 

“Would you let me take it off before you do it? I expect there will be blood, but if I can save this dress from it my maid can wear it. We are the same size.”

 

What was he doing, murdering a child? He wished he had asked Cersei why the girl needed to be killed. But his cock had been wet and warm when he had agreed to this, and his brain had been sleeping. What harm was this little wisp of a girl? All she was begging for, even now, was to save her dress.

 

He found it hard to look her in the eye. Why wasn’t she crying? Why wasn’t she hysterical?

 

Maybe… maybe he didn’t have to kill her.

 

That was a dangerous thought, and Jaime shook his head. The girl must have thought this was a refusal of her wish, because tears finally sprang up to her eyes, but she tilted her chin up and didn’t look away.

 

“Go,” he said suddenly, surprising even himself. “Take your dress off behind that tree over there, and come back.”

 

She nearly ran to the tree he had pointed to, and he wanted to laugh at the way she caught herself. Ladies don’t run, some Septa must have taught her.

 

_ You don’t have to kill her, _ said a voice in his head.  _ You could just leave her here. _

 

She wouldn’t survive these wretched woods. There were rumors of a wolf pack, led by a giant she-wolf. There were wild boars and poisoned fruit, and all manner of deadly things that would kill her before she could even think of running all the way North to her barren, icy lands. Cersei wanted the girl dead. He didn’t have to actually  _ do  _ the killing himself.

 

By the time the girl slipped out from behind the tree, he was long gone.

 


	2. Wolf in the night

Ghost had, over the years, brought Jon some spectacular surprises.

 

There was the time when Ghost had decided the best way to wake up a snoring Jon was to dump a bloody paw from some poor wild pig on his face. There was that time when he had inexplicably brought home a  _ human  _ hand, and try as they might, they had been unable to find the rest of that particular human. Arya had insisted it was from a live trespasser, but Sam had agreed with Jon that there wasn’t enough blood. Ghost had just wandered off to bring Jon a dead squirrel.

 

He had never, however, gifted Jon with a girl.

 

She was lying on the ground, huddled up in a truly impractical dress and a heavy cloak. For a minute, Jon was worried that Ghost had finally decided to show him the owner of the hand that Arya had tried to embalm, but then he saw ten different fingers clutching the cloak tight around her. Ghost nuzzled her, as if he was a lap dog instead of a beast capable of ripping her in half. When she moved into the warmth of his wolf, Jon realized she was alive.

 

“Ghost, to me,” he whispered quietly. There was a roaring in his ears. He shivered, even though he was warm. He threaded his hands through Ghost’s fur when his friend reluctantly returned to him.

 

The girl was moving restlessly, but hadn’t moved much. She wasn’t entirely conscious. Jon stood there, frozen with indecision. He couldn’t leave her here, the night was too cold, and there were too many wild beasts prowling in the woods. No, he couldn’t leave her here, but… She looked high born, in her dirty dress and heavy cloak. Sam would kill him for even looking at her.

 

He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, staring at the green leaves in her auburn hair, the way she seemed to shiver even in her sleep. The ground seemed wet under her, and her dress was getting muddy.

 

Sighing, he moved forward to pick her up.

* * *

Sansa was warm when she woke up.

 

It was the first thing she noticed, even before consciousness fully returned to her. Her fashionable cloak had been ill-equipped to protect her from the chill of the night, but that wasn’t the cloak she was wrapped in right now. The heavy wool was swaddled around her as if she were a babe, and Sansa embraced the warmth. 

 

It took her a few more minutes to realize she was in a feather bed, and sat bolt upright. Her heart was pounding. Had Ser Jaime come back for her? Where was she?

 

Her boots were muddy, and they stank, but they were the only footwear available to her. Someone had placed them right next to her bed, and she pulled them on. The room was long, with beds on either side. She counted seven, in total. Was she dreaming? Had she died in the cold, in the dark where no hero would come to rescue her?

 

The cold and the dark had terrified her. Silly of her to be terrified of the dark when she had faced Ser Jaime and his mission with clear eyes. What had come over her? She had understood what he must have meant to do, when he had led her so far into the woods. She hadn’t even been angry, let alone afraid. The fear had come later, when night had closed around her, alive with the sound of a thousand creatures that could kill her for sport or food, or both.

 

“You’re a stupid, stupid man!” rang out a high, shrill voice, and Sansa gasped. Whoever this girl was, she was angry, and close. Sansa followed the voice down the stairs, careful. So very careful.

 

It belonged to a little slip of a girl, standing indignantly in a small kitchen off the hallway. There seemed to be too many people crowded into the little room, but she was the only girl. Her face was red with her anger, her grey eyes sharp and annoyed. For someone so little, she looked fierce.

 

“Lower your voice,” said the subject of her ire, his voice considerably lower than hers. “Or you will wake her up!” His eyes were the same color as the girl’s, and even though he held himself stoically, Sansa could feel his frustration somehow.

 

“Why would you bring her here, Jon?” asked a fat man who was facing away from her. “It’s dangerous.”

 

“A half dead  _ girl  _ in a dress is dangerous to me? Where exactly does she hide her deadly weapons?”

 

Several of the men began to talk at once.

 

“I have no weapons, Ser,” she said quietly, trying not to flinch when the overcrowded kitchen fell silent. They were all staring at her. “I do believe I have you to thank for saving my life.”

 

For a moment, no one spoke. They were all gaping at her as if she were an Other from one of Old Nan’s stories. Why were they so afraid of her?

 

“Who walks in the woods at night without a weapon?” the girl muttered, still cross.   
  


* * *

 

They weren’t hostile, though they did seem cross with her savior for thrusting her in their lives. They gave her a warm blanket to wrap herself in, instead of the cloak that smelled like a stable, and gave her soup.

 

“This is good soup,” she said, hoping to win at least the cook over, but they just laughed.

 

“It’s the only thing Edd can make without poisoning us all,” said the fat man, Sam. Sansa noted the deep blush on the face of the thin, short man next to her, and decided he must be Edd.

 

“There was an old woman at home who used to make the best kidney pies,” she said quietly, wondering where all her inane chatter was coming from. “We called her Old Nan. She put peas and onions in them.”

 

“Stop, or you will make Pyp drool,” said Arya. Sansa smiled.

 

They talked for a while, scoffing when she told them she was a simple seamstress from King’s Landing, protesting when she insisted they let her keep her identity secret. Dareon sang of a mystery girl with sad eyes and fire in her hair, but seemed at a loss for lyrics within minutes. When she told them her name, each of them repeated it in increasingly stranger accents till it became a game to say it in the most ridiculous way possible, and Sansa laughed out loud for the first time in a long while. Jon Rivers, the bastard who had saved her, was the only one who didn’t take part in the game. 

 

“Do you keep horses?” she asked them when they finally tired of their game, and her depressing reality came crashing back on her. 

 

“Aye,” said Jon, his brow furrowed. He really was quite grumpy, Sansa decided. “What do you need a horse for?”

 

“I have to go North,” she said, hoping they wouldn’t ask her to elaborate. His scowl was starting to make her heart pound.  _ Please don’t refuse _ . “I can pay for a horse, I...” She yanked out the comb in her hair, showing them the jewels glittering on it. “They’re real,” she whispered. “A horse and some food is all I ask for.”

 

They were quiet again, her merry band of saviours. Did they not wish her to go? Hadn’t they been insisting she didn’t belong here only a few hours ago? These were strange people, but she was grateful nonetheless.

 

“She can have mine,” said Dareon from his corner, and everyone nodded. “Don’t fancy riding,” he explained to Sansa.

 

“It is decided, then,” said Samwell Tarly with a decisive nod. “You leave us tomorrow.”

 

A few leagues away, inside the Red Keep, Queen Cersei set down her mirror. She did not look around when her brother answered her summons and slipped into her chambers.

 

“You’ve betrayed me,” said Cersei with rage simmering in her words. “Oh, Jaime.”


	3. Maiden in a Song

After three hours of terrible sleep, Sansa was shaken awake at first light.

 

“My brother says you need to be ready,” said Arya. “Your horse is.”

 

Sansa was too disoriented to ask which of the several men was Arya’s brother. How did they sleep in such noise each night? Sam had the most spectacular snores, and Arya hadn’t stopped sneezing loudly, even in her sleep.

 

Arya’s almighty sneeze rang out even as Sansa slipped into the little kitchen, wishing for a comb to fix her hair and knowing Arya probably didn’t have one. 

 

“Sure you want to do all that riding in that dress?” Dareon asked her as he handed her a bowl of stew. 

 

Sansa stared at him. The dress had possibly saved her life, inane as it sounded. She had been so sure she was going to die when she had rounded that tree with her dress clutched tight in bloodless fists. Instead, there had been deafening silence. She had screamed at Ser Jaime, certain he was playing some game with his prey, adamant to not be drawn into it. Her dress deserved a better end than her. It was still useful, unlike her. It would get to grow old and faded, a future Sansa had trouble envisioning for herself.

 

“Yes,” she said simply, unsure how to explain her strange fixation over a silly dress.

 

She ate her stew and let the men worry over her. They wouldn’t say so with as many words, but they  _ were  _ worried, asking over and over again about her plans, about why she had to leave so soon. It wasn’t safe for a young woman to travel by herself, but none of them offered to be her travelling companion, and she was glad. She had too many secrets, and she suspected they had a few of their own. It would make for an uncomfortable journey.

 

Jon Rivers came into the kitchen as she was rising, thanking them all for their hospitality. She smiled at him, but his grim expression didn’t change. “You can’t leave,” he said in his blunt way. “There are soldiers looking for you all over King’s Landing. They have announced a reward for your head.”

* * *

So Sansa stayed with the strange men and the stranger girl.

 

She had told them firmly that she intended to pay them back for their hospitality, and did her share of the chores. She was horrible at cooking, she found out one horrendous night, after she nearly burned down the cottage. But Dareon was more than capable of feeding them, so she took over the sewing and repairing of their clothes, and she tended to the little garden behind their home. Arya forbid her from harming a one-eared cat that loved walking through Sansa’s garden, ruining her work, telling her that, “Balerion was a mighty ally and was not to be harmed.”

 

Every morning, Jon Snow and Edd would go to the closest village at the edge of the woods, to gather news. They must have all known she was the rightful Queen of the Winter Kingdom by now, and she kept anticipating someone to ask her about it, but none of them did. She wasn’t sold back to the queen in the middle of the night either.

 

“I know how it feels,” said Jon to her one day when he was helping her in the garden, his gaze fixed on the weeds he was pulling.

 

Sansa, who had been daydreaming about the glass gardens of Winterfell, gave him a distracted nod. “How what feels?”

 

“To be away from home,” he muttered quietly. “To… to be needed by your people, to worry about them, and be frustrated when all you can do is sit and wait.”

 

A heavy silence fell as Sansa contemplated his words. “What are you waiting for?”

 

His smile was rueful and didn’t reach his eyes. “My cousins… I am waiting for my aunt’s children to grow up.”

 

That was so far from any answer Sansa could have expected that she gaped at him. “Why?”

 

Jon considered her a bit before he answered. Even before he answered, she knew he wasn’t going to give her the whole truth. “They will help me get my lands back,” he said finally.

 

“Where is she? Where are they?”

 

“East,” said Jon, looking wistfully in the direction of the rising sun. “They aren’t here.”

 

“When will they come?”

 

“You’ll know when they do,” he said cryptically.

 

“You’ll write to me, won’t you, Jon?” she asked, heart thudding with an emotion she couldn’t name. “You know who I am. When I am home, will you write to me?”

Sam’s voice was sharp when he called them inside for dinner, and Sansa wondered how much the fat man had heard. She thought over Jon Snow’s words all throughout dinner, even as Dareon sang about Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, one of her favorite knights. She was almost asleep when she realized why his words had bothered her.

 

Jon Snow talked like a man who had the responsibility of the people on his young shoulders, like she did. Who was unable to do anything about it, forced to wait and watch, like she was. 

 

He talked like a king.

They all had their secrets, it seemed.

 

She was an exiled queen, and Jon Snow seemed like an important lordling, exiled as well. Arya talked like a lady, but that was where her genteel nature ended. She ran after Balerion all day, sneezing loudly, but refused to listen to Sansa when she ventured that Arya might have an allergy to cats. Sam told her proudly that he had run away from his lord father when he was just thirteen, and he had studied in Oldtown, but that his father had found him and sent assassins to kill him. They were all hiding from something or the other, it seemed. Dareon had been accused by some lord of ruining his daughter, which he swore to her was a falsehood, and Edd had been Jon’s companion since before they came to these woods, but he wouldn’t tell her exactly where they were before. Pyp and Grenn mentioned one night after a few too many skins of ale that they had served Jon Snow  _ before  _ too.

 

He was an intriguing man, Sansa knew now. Beautiful, with his dark hair and gray eyes, his soft curls and his small smiles. She had thought him dull when she first saw him, grumpy and dour, but a few days were enough to change her mind. He smiled often at her, and laughed at Arya’s antics. He seemed to enjoy witty banter with Sam, and cared deeply for his men. He worked as hard as Grenn and Pyp did, even though he was presumably above them in station. He practiced with his sword every day, and was a very good hunter. Unlike Joffrey, he didn’t just kill rabbits from afar. He brought them meat nearly every day, hunting when his wolf did.

 

And yet she didn’t know all of his secrets, and he didn’t know Sansa’s.

 

She wanted to trust them. She wanted to tell them who she was, how important it was for her to go home, how she mourned her family and dreaded the responsibility of an entire kingdom. Sometimes, when she wept at night, Arya would wrap her little arms around her and let her cry it out. They would huddle in bed with their secrets, and neither would say a word. Sansa had no words to explain how much these stolen moments of comfort meant to her.

 

News of the outside world was brought in every morning, and then forgotten by evening. It seemed impossible that the world could touch them. She worked hard in their little neck of the woods, and tried to help her saviors in whichever way she could. She wasn’t allowed to stray far, for it was too dangerous. Jon wasn’t allowed to stray far either. He was to be accompanied any time he left the cottage. Arya was too, but she was far less reluctant to follow rules.

 

The moon turned, and she stayed safe. She stayed away from home. She longed for freedom.


	4. Breathe

Sansa couldn’t sleep.

 

It wasn’t Arya, with her red nose and too-cold feet, or Sam’s snoring. She felt… funny, she decided. Her stomach swooped if she moved too fast, and she wondered if her moon blood was going to come again soon. She had been living in the cottage for almost a moon’s turn now.

 

She blushed and almost groaned in mortification when she realized she would have to ask Arya for rags. Hot and flustered, Sansa left the narrow bed, smiling as Arya immediately moved to the warm spot she left behind. She was like the little sister Sansa had always hoped for, though she would sooner wield her skinny little sword than learn how to braid the bird’s nest she called hair.

 

Sansa decided to leave everyone to their slumber. It was almost dawn. She could bathe in the little pool behind their cottage before starting her day, feel refreshed. The water would be cold, but…

 

She stopped in her tracks when she passed Jon’s bed. He wasn’t there. The sheets were rucked up, so he  _ had  _ slept, just not all night. Sansa hoped dearly he hadn’t gone to the village, not alone. Sam would begin to shout again, and it was strange seeing their kindly doctor yell and shout. Arya called it his “moods”.

 

As it turned out, Jon hadn’t gone to the village. He had had the same idea as her, of having a leisurely bath before everyone else woke up.

 

Unfortunately, she didn’t realize he was in the pool till she was too close, and only the softly splashing sounds in the still pre-dawn stopped her from stumbling into a truly embarrassing situation.

 

That is not to say she wasn’t currently embarrassed. Jon was naked, she knew that somehow, even though the water reached his waist and hid the… the lower bits. He was facing away from her, and Sansa should have taken the opportunity to slip away, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood there and gawked at him, her gaze following the rivulets running down his spine. He was very… well formed. 

 

_ Leave, _ Sansa admonished herself even as she stepped back into the foliage, the better to hide. This was wrong, she knew, spying on him when he thought he was alone. But she couldn’t help it. Her feet seemed stuck to the ground.

 

Jon lifted both hands to slick back the wet hair that must have been sticking to his face, and Sansa nearly gasped like some slattern when his biceps bulged. She stared at the wet expanse of skin, at the play of muscles when his arms moved, at the drops of water that chased each other down his body… and felt herself flush. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep after this. He looked so different than her, hard and strong where she was weak and soft. She was suddenly hoping he would turn, hoping to see…

 

Jon was suddenly moving, the water splashing noisily. Had she made some sound? Had he heard her wicked thoughts?

 

But Jon didn’t turn to glare accusingly at her. He was simply moving closer to the water’s edge, closer to her, and Sansa tried not to feel too happy about that. The water was more shallow near the edge. There was a much better chance of seeing…

 

What was she thinking? Her septa would be really cross with her if she were still alive!  _ But she isn’t,  _ a dark voice whispered.  _ She isn’t alive, and neither is anyone else. There is only you, the rightful Queen of the North. _

 

Sansa straightened her shoulders. No one was looking at her, and no one would judge her. She was a queen. If she wanted to spy on a man taking his bath, she would do so. And she should, shouldn’t she? She didn’t even know what men looked like down there! Septa Mordane had simply said that they weren’t the same as boys, that it would be different than little Bran’s, but… Well, Sansa’s husband would expect her to know  _ some  _ things. So she looked.

 

But she couldn’t get a very good look at all. Jon was… touching it, touching himself down there, and his hand obscured her view. She wished he would step out of the water, really. How long was he going to clean it? She wanted to see. 

 

He was moving his hand too strangely, rhythmically and with complete abandon. She couldn’t see much, but then he moved, and she could see his thighs peak out of the water. There was so much too see, but she focused on those thighs, wondering if the muscle underneath was as hard as it looked, if it would feel hard or soft to the touch. He was a very well-sculpted man, nothing like the knights from stories long forgotten, but a warrior nonetheless. Sansa very desperately wanted to touch him.

 

Quite suddenly, the muted grunts he was making changed into a long groan, and his hand quickened. Sansa’s gaze leapt back to his face, and stayed. That was where she should have been focussing, she realized. He looked… focused. His mouth was slack, the frowns she was used to had disappeared. It was thrilling to watch the way he was making himself feel. Then he started to make noises, and Sansa had to clench her thighs together to quell the sudden hot ache there.

 

“Sweet girl,” he moaned, his voice deliciously low and gruff. He licked his lips, and Sansa burned with the need to do it for him instead. “Let me… please let me, please.”

 

Sansa frowned. He was imagining some girl, she understood that, and chasing his pleasure. It had taken her a while to figure that out, but she  _ had  _ touched herself before too, so she knew what that was. Of course, she hadn’t really figured out how to do it well, had never been gifted the good feeling Jeyne Poole had mentioned a lifetime ago. But who was Jon Rivers speaking to, in this fantasy? Did he have a girl in the village?

 

“Please...”

 

Of course he was begging, even in his thoughts. Joffrey would have demanded. Joffrey wouldn’t have been imagining a lady, he would have taken her. Sansa wondered if this girl was prettier than her, if she was better at kissing. Had they lain together? Like husband and wife? She had thought Jon to be a noble bastard, or a lordling in hiding, but he was just a baseborn man with girls and bosoms on his mind. 

 

She was distracted from her black thoughts when Jon lurched forward suddenly with a muffled shout, his balance so precarious that for a while Sansa was worried he was going to drown. “Good girl,” he muttered, almost as if he were in a fever. “My good, sweet girl. So good for me...”

 

Sansa wondered why that girl was kissing him and letting him into her bed if she were so good. She was a slattern, some potter’s daughter from a village who probably knew that a lordling like Jon was the best she could do.

 

Sansa was too engrossed in her own jealous thoughts to realize the most obvious problem with her current position. Jon was done bathing, and he was climbing out of the water. She finally got a good look at him when he was standing on the banks, donning his clothes. It was a bit disappointing to see, and mostly it confused her. It was smaller than she thought it would be when he was playing with it. The rest of his body held more of her attention, and she found herself mesmerized by his flat chest. What would happen if she licked it?

 

And now he was coming straight for her, his breeches still undone and his dirty tunic slung over one shoulder. 

 

Sansa panicked, and instead of quietly stealing away she made a whole lot of noise. There was too much underbrush, and Jon saw her.

 

They both turned so red they must have looked like apples. For a foolish moment Sansa froze, as if that would turn her invisible, and then she fled. She could hear him shout her name behind her, but the burning shame wouldn’t let her stop. The ground was wet, and she almost fell, but she didn’t stop till she reached the cottage and slipped into the little garden. He wouldn’t find her here. Would he know she had seen him… do  _ that _ ? Maybe she could tell him she hadn’t seen anything, that she had only happened upon him moments before he saw her?

 

The more her racing heart calmed down, the more plausible this lie seemed. There had been no reason to flee. It was just a little harmless walk in the fresh air, and she had happened upon him once he had put his breeches on. That was what she would tell him.

 

The problem was, Jon didn’t say a single word to her all day. She tried to talk to him, but he fled every time she came even a little close. His excuses became more and more clumsy, and decidedly more desperate as the others left the cottage to their various daily tasks. Pretty soon, they were both alone at opposite ends of the tiny cottage, and Sansa hadn’t spoken a word to him all day.

 

Why was he being so maddeningly difficult? His behaviour was childish, to say the very least. She was alone in the gardens now, rooting out weeds again. If he would just listen to her lie and help her make it real, she could forget about the incidents of the morning, about what she saw and what he revealed. She wanted to stop thinking about the bold movements and the hard muscles, wanted to stop the way she felt quite faint when she thought about it. 

 

Jon had gone into the woods with Ghost a while back, and Sansa wondered if he was going to do it again. Did he do it every morning? Or whenever the fancy stuck him? If she was very, very quiet…

 

“Good morning to you, sweet lady.”

 

It was a stranger’s voice behind her, and Sansa’s blood ran cold. 


	5. Purple Serpents

She was afraid of him.

 

Ramsay was no fool, and that is why Queen Cersei had called for him to come down South with his prized hounds and come search for the little queen. No hound in the capital could have tracked a weeks old scent. His bitches had. He wondered if it was  _ her _ meat they would be offered come nightfall.

 

“Who are you?” she asked warily, her hand tightening on the handle of her little spade. Such a small thing she was. If he had brought his hounds with him, she would already be dead.

 

“Ramsay Snow, my lady,” he said, making sure to bow deep. He didn’t miss the way her frown lightened on hearing his exaggerated Northern accent. “I was simply passing through this forest in order to make it home before nightfall. Forgive me, but I didn’t know people lived in these woods.”

 

“I… Well, I do. Is there anything you needed?”

 

She was blunt, something he hadn’t expected. He had been told she loved her courtesies. “It is not a matter of what I want, sweet lady. Is there anything you would like from this humble trader?”

 

When he turned and took the sheet off his wagon of goods, he saw the twinkle in her eye before she steeled herself. Such a silly little girl she was. 

 

“Not that you need it, my lady, but would you like to buy a corset?”

* * *

He was so ashamed that he had half a mind to run East to Daenerys. He could come home when the dragons were grown, and Sansa wouldn’t remember him taking himself in hand like a randy greenboy when he was astride a dragon.

 

_ If  _ the dragons even liked him. He had never met them. And  _ if  _ Sansa had seen anything.

 

Maybe she hadn’t seen a thing. Maybe she had only just arrived when he saw her. She hadn’t heard him gasping and moaning out for her, imagining the flush on her sweet face when he would bury his own between her thighs…

 

He was a wretched human being. She was a  _ child.  _ His  _ cousin _ . Not that she knew it.

 

But there were times where he felt that only she could understand him, this queen far from her throne, this child with the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. Did she resent the responsibility at times, like he did? Maybe it was different for her. He had never known his parents, didn’t know how he felt about them, but she had known hers. She must mourn them, and want to make them proud, while all he felt was the weight of Rhaegar’s mistakes on his shoulders. Sometimes, when he thought about the coming dragons and the havoc they would cause to his people, he wanted to slip out of his bed and into Sansa’s, bury his face in Sansa’s sweet-smelling hair and forget the world.

 

Ghost was getting agitated. Maybe it was time to head back. He couldn’t avoid it forever.

 

Ghost began to nudge and butt his giant head against Jon. “Stop it, wolf,” he muttered, even as chills ran down his spine. Something was wrong.

 

Ghost didn’t stop his distressed behavior on the way back to the cottage. “Stop, Ghost. To me,” Jon muttered, one hand on the pommel of his sword. “To me!”

 

But the wolf wouldn’t listen. Jon slipped into the cottage behind her, and felt all breath leave his body when he saw the scene inside.

 

There was a man in their cottage, a man that Ghost was baring his teeth at. Sansa… at first he couldn’t see her, and he tried to push back the panic long enough to look for her. He had left her alone, unprotected, and he had fled like a coward.

 

“Where is she?” 

 

The stranger was looking at Ghost and his bared teeth with a strange glee in his blue eyes. Jon wondered how long that glee would stay once he gave Ghost the order. 

 

“The little queen?” said the man mockingly, and swept an arm out like a crier at a fair. When Jon saw her sprawled on the ground at an awkward angle, he couldn’t stop the cry of grief and outrage.  _ She can’t be dead. She can’t be.  _ She looked so pale… “Shh… she’s sleeping. Are you the prince come to rescue her?”

 

For the first time in his life, Ghost growled. Jon was so shocked he whipped his head about to look at his wolf. Ghost was snarling so fiercely Jon was sure the man had minutes to live. 

 

“Sweet little thing,” said the stranger. “Vain though. Got defeated by her own vanity.”

 

Jon reached him first, his cry of rage inhuman. The smug little man grinned as if he had won a great victory by agitating his adversary, and Jon’s fists were swinging before he was even conscious of his plan to do so. Ghost didn’t disturb him. Jon didn’t know where the wolf was, he was too focused on methodically destroying the bastard’s face with his fists. Nothing else mattered. He had killed Sansa. He had hurt her…

 

Ghost tipped back his head and howled in grief. Jon suddenly wanted to do the same. What was he doing? Sansa needed him. He climbed off the bloodied and unconscious man. 

 

“Sansa...” She looked so pale that it was difficult to look at her. There were amethysts in her hair, glowing bright and mocking him. Had the man poisoned her? Maybe he should have beat the truth out of him. Jon didn’t know what to do. He was running his hands all over her, looking for injuries, his breath harsh and sobbing. He shouldn’t have left her alone. He should have protected her.

 

Ghost was mouthing along her arm too, nudging her, urging her to wake up, perhaps. She was still breathing, though her breath was shallow. Jon stared at the hair net. The purple looked pretty. Was it deadly?

 

He tried to pull the thing off, but it was tied to her head somehow. Her breath was getting pained, she was wheezing… he knew the thing was poisoning her, it had to be. He needed… his ability to think was leaving her, and he wanted to keep nudging her to wake up, like Ghost was. Like a child.

 

“Sansa,” he sobbed as he stood up. She was heavy in his arms, like dead weight, and he stumbled outside. The air was cleaner, it would… “Please, wake up Sansa.”

 

Ghost and he worked together, trying to tear the thing off while Sansa wheezed, and Jon had to shake himself out of the horror of losing her to focus at the task at hand. She wasn’t going to leave him. He wasn’t going to let her die. He won’t. He would give his breath to her if he could, he would give her the world, his throne, his life, if it meant she would return to him.

 

His breath. He could give her his breath!

 

Jon bent his head down, cradling her face in his hands. Her head felt to heavy, but he ignored the feeling of her lifeless body in his arms and sealed his mouth to hers. With his first gentle breath, Ghost reared up and broke the chain holding the hairnet in place.

 

It fell and shattered on the ground, the little stones going every which way. Some crumbled to dust right before him, but he barely noticed. Sansa’s breath had stopped entirely. 

 

“No, no, no, please,” he begged, barely conscious of his words. “I am sorry, I won’t ignore you again. I will tell you everything, Sansa. I will protect you, I promise. Just come back to me, sweet girl, come back to me now. Come back...”

 

And, somewhere in the depths of her mind, she seemed to have heard him. With a great shuddering breath, Sansa started to breathe again. Ghost rushed at them from where he had been sniffing the purple stones, and Jon fell under his wolf’s giddy attention, Sansa cradled safely in his arms. He didn’t even realize he was kissing Sansa’s face.

 

“You came back,” he murmured over her eyelid, delirious with relief. “You came back to me, my sweet Sansa, my sweet girl… you came back. I am so sorry… What did he do to you? I will kill him. I won’t ever let him touch you again, I promise. I swear it, sweet girl.”

 

“Sweet girl?” Sansa murmured in a haze, her smile the best thing he had seen in his life. “Jon.”

 

“I’m here,” he said, his lips in her hair. When she tilted her head up, when she reached for him, Jon was powerless to stop his lips from meeting her seeking ones, and he sighed when she gifted him with the sweet nectar of her lips.

 

Overhead, a dragon screeched as it’s rider commanded it to descend.

  
  
  
  



End file.
